Bleak
by Black Snowdrop
Summary: Molly Hooper has had enough. Weary of picking the wrong guy and investing everything into those relationships. Sick of being picked up and then discarded by Sherlock. Exhausted of having these feelings that are never going to be requited. Molly is done with saving people and living in her own mind now.


"Miss Hooper," the consultant, a thin, red haired young man sat before her, his hands clasped together. He had very blue eyes, Molly thought, and they looked way too glitteringly sad for this to be good news. Her stomach began to sink even before he spoke the words. "I'm afraid your test results show that you have breast cancer." He paused and looked down at his notes, away from her eyes as though he was guilty. Like there was something he could have done to prevent it and he hadn't done it. Molly felt a pang of sympathy for him before her mind fully processed what he had told her.

She blinked rapidly. Of course it's cancer, a voice in her head told her. Why wouldn't it be cancer? Why wouldn't you get it on top of everything else going on? Why not cancer?

Molly breathed out and the tears slid down her cheeks. It was odd, she thought to herself, being in this room and hearing about a medical problem involving her, a living person. Molly had spent so much time working with dead people, with people who were past the stage where they had to worry about it, that it was strange for her to be in this predicament.

"Cancer," she repeated. "Right. And you're sure?" she asked. Her brain flipped onto autopilot. She felt her emotions sinking under a kind of suppression that took over her.

The consultant nodded. "Yes, Miss Hooper. The lump we removed was cancerous and the further tests we did revealed that there are still cancerous cells within your breast."

Of course they didn't get all of it out. Of course there's still something wrong with you. Why wouldn't it happen? Why not pile something else on top? The specialist registrar wiped at her eyes hurriedly. This was all part of life taking another kick at her, wasn't it? Clearly she hadn't had enough shit going on lately. Or she'd been Hitler in a previous life. She breathed out, trying to regulate her breathing but it just made her sound shaky.

"But we are optimistic that we have caught it at an early stage and we can certainly treat it. We need to prepare a course of treatment for you and get started as soon as we can," the consultant - Edward Reese, Molly read on his desk stand - told her.

"Right," she answered. "Well I suppose we better get on that then," Molly said, still on autopilot. She stood up from her chair and grabbed her coat and bag. Dr Reese began to stand up as well, his features twisting into an expression of protest.

"We need to get you booked in first-" he declared but Molly was already headed for the door.

"Yeah," she said, "yeah." And she was out of the door, her footsteps quickening as she hurried down the hospital corridor.

There was no one to come home to, Molly was reminded as she stepped through her front door. The house needed a clean and there was a draught. She must have left one of the windows open. She soon found the culprit - the kitchen window. She closed it, switched the kettle on and started to prepare a cup of tea.

The memory came back to her, against her will. Standing in this kitchen, brewing up when the call from Sherlock came through. His insistence on confronting the elephant that had parked itself in the same room as Molly and Sherlock for as long as she had known him. The elephant neither of them had spoken about. The elephant that would never leave. His excuse that it was all for a case, that it was a matter of greatest importance. That he needed to hear her say that she loved him. How that was necessary for a case, Molly had had no clue until John had told her later. The humiliation burned in her stomach even now because she remembered how her heart had soared when Sherlock had said the words first, how he had done as Molly had asked. For a glorious few minutes, Molly had deluded herself. And then John had chased away the delusion days later. Her humiliation was complete. She had nothing to hide behind next time she saw Sherlock and the thought of doing so provoked nasty headaches and weariness. It had been four weeks since she'd seen either him or John and, as far as she was concerned, it was four weeks too soon.

She poured the water into the cup and stirred the teabag around. A tear slid down her face.

It's not fair. She thought to herself. It's not fair. She stirred the bag. First I can't have a nice, normal relationship with anyone without it dying. She stirred again. I can't get Sherlock out of my head. Another stir. And now my stupid feelings have been dragged out into the open by a psychopath. Yet another stir. I'm in love with someone who will never feel that way about me. She stirred again. Who thinks I'm a tool he can pick up and drop. Stir. And he calls that friendship. Another strong stir. And yet I still run around after him. Once more, she stirred it as another tear slid down her face. Now I don't even have my health.

Molly started to cry, freely and fully.

None of this was fair.

Tea turned to wine and when the wine ran out, Molly raided her stash of spirits which consisted of half a bottle of whiskey left over from a night in with friends. Friends who had lost touch with her some time ago and only occasionally said hello on facebook. Thinking about them now, Molly was giving serious thought to the possibility that she had been someone truly terrible in a past life. Why else would things keep going wrong for her? Why were so many chances of happiness spoiled for her?

Molly sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch, staring over at the switched off electric fire and then back at the empty bottle of whiskey. She could hear her consultant's voice in her head, cautioning her against drinking so much alcohol, saying that it wouldn't do her treatment any good. That's if the treatment even works, Molly thought bitterly. Maybe there was a reason, nothing other than work and being godmother to Molly had worked out for her. Maybe she wasn't meant to really do anything with her life. That was a bleak but real possibility. In which case, was there any point in having any treatment?

She looked down at her empty glass. She could choose not to. She had that choice. She didn't have choice over much else in her life but she could choose now.

Molly wiped at her eyes and picked up her phone again. She browsed through a couple of survivor stories of breast cancer and then some stories of those who had lost loved ones to it. She looked out of the window. Who did she have that would be devastated if she didn't survive this? She had some people who liked her well enough. But she'd stopped talking to her family over a decade ago when she'd escaped their life of crack dens and illegal dealings. People drifted apart from her one way or the other. Thinking about that made Molly's stomach ache. Or maybe that was just the alcohol.

She threw her phone back on the couch. Whatever she decided to do, there were practicalities to sort out. There was work for one thing.

Molly groaned. She liked her job but it was also very much tied in to Sherlock and his cases. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea if she took time off work right now. The thought of seeing that arrogant, self-serving detective made Molly's insides quiver with anger.

Work were surprised to say the least. They would have been more surprised if Molly had told them about the cancer. She'd intended to. She really had.

But when she'd gotten to Dr Rolenstaw's office, the words wouldn't come. The thought of seeing shock and pity play upon her boss' face. No. Molly did not want that.

So she'd told him she needed some time off because of stress. (That was hardly a lie). He'd agreed, told her to use her holidays if she wanted. Guilt gnawed at Molly's insides as she had left the office. He was so understanding, maybe she should have told him. But then her throat closed over at the thought of telling anyone her diagnosis. Cancer. The big C. The big excuse for everyone to pretend that she meant more to them than she actually did. The big game of players and insincerity in her case. Yeah, Molly wanted none of it.

Once again, back home, Molly walked into the back room that acted as her study. It was quite dusty, as well as dark. Molly couldn't remember the last time she'd opened the curtains in this tiny room. She needed to have a big clean soon, she realised as she opened the curtains. Piles of books took up most of the desk along with unopened letters. Molly sank into the swivel chair and picked up the pile of letters. The bills, she'd already paid. There were a couple of postcards from people as well. It didn't take her long to go through the pile of letters.

'All about that bass' began to play from her handbag and Molly paused, looking down at her phone screen, illuminating from the top of her bag. John Watson calling.

Molly felt guilt gnawing at her again. She picked up the phone and disconnected the call. She really couldn't get involved with a case right now or mind Rosie. She loved that little girl but she didn't even know if she was going to be around to see her grow up. The thought of seeing her regardless just created an unpleasant ache in Molly's chest. She looked down at her phone and swiped the call screen away. The wallpaper stared up at her. It was a picture of her holding Molly and laughing. Back when her life had seemed more manageable. She stared at the screen until the call screen invaded again. John Watson calling again. She disconnected it once more.

A few minutes passed and he called again. Molly scowled down at the phone and disconnected it again. A minute later, a message popped up on her screen. John had left a voicemail. Sighing angrily, she picked it up and listened to it.

"Molly, hi," John's voice sounded nonchalant, as though he hadn't been urgently calling her. "I'm sorry if you're busy right now but Sherlock and I need some help on a case. It's quite time sensitive and we really need your help. Please call us back or just answer next time. Please. It's important." Molly put her phone away.

Go find someone else. She thought as she left the study and went to make a cup of tea.

Within fifteen minutes, her phone was buzzing repeatedly thanks to Sherlock. She cut the call off four times before she eventually turned her phone off. There was something a little bit therapeutic about that. Although, she couldn't help remembering what happened last time she had spoken on the phone to Sherlock. How he had thought it was a matter of life or death. How the whole 'I love you' thing had been him trying to save her life. That, in itself, was nice but it had brought everything up to the surface in an unpleasant way. Molly wasn't anxious to go back to that. Besides, there were other people that could help.

The landline started to ring. Molly went to answer it but then hesitated. Why did I give Sherlock my home number, why? She looked down at the caller ID and shook her head. Nice try, Sherlock. But you'll give in before I do. She sat back down in the living room and sipped her tea.

The landline continued to ring and Molly's nerves became more and more agitated. "Leave me alone," she muttered. "For fuck's sake, Sherlock, leave me alone." She put the TV on and the news flashed on the screen before her. She put the volume up as loud as she dared without being considered a pest to her neighbours. But still the phone continued to disrupt the sound of the TV with its shrill ringing. After about an hour, Molly gave up and turned off the TV. She headed upstairs to her bedroom. At least it was quieter up there and the phone wouldn't be as noisy. As she did, she turned her mobile on and saw the string of messages from Sherlock.

Molly, answer the phone. I need your help. SH

Please answer. I don't want someone else on this case.

It is VERY important.

Don't ignore me.

Molly, this is a good case. Please help.

The last message was over an hour ago. Suddenly, a new message popped up on the screen.

Forget the case, Molly. I solved it. Text me back that you're okay.

Molly sat on her bed, frowning down at the text. That wasn't very Sherlock. That sounded more like John. Maybe John was telling him what to say. That sounded more plausible. And that thing about the case? Well, Molly could believe that he had solved it fast but it still sounded like something of a lie. No, Molly reasoned to herself, he's just trying to trick you into answering. That sounds a lot like Sherlock.

She lay down on the bed and put her phone on silent. Downstairs she heard the landline start up again. He was a persistent bastard, Molly thought as she got more and more agitated. Maybe she should have just answered the first time and refused over the phone. Maybe then all this would have gone away. But since when have you ever refused Sherlock Holmes? A nasty voice in her head taunted her. You would have gone along like a little puppy and let him use you all over again. No, don't answer the phone.

The phone stopped ringing eventually, just as Molly was starting to consider going out for a few hours. The sudden silence was both welcoming and bewildering. She sat up on the bed and smiled a little. Had Sherlock finally gotten the message. She swung her legs off the bed and grabbed her phone. There were some messages from John this time.

Molly, if you're busy, just let us know. We're getting worried after what happened last time. Molly read the first one and felt a stab of guilt. She started to reply and then hesitated. If she replied then that would just invite Sherlock to start bothering her again. She closed the messages app and began to rub at her temple, stress eating at her.

She realised that this was the longest she had gone without thinking of her diagnosis all week and, in the end, it was just another kind of stress. Molly closed her eyes, brushing a tear away as it formed in the corner. Bloody Sherlock Holmes, she thought.

From outside, she heard a car engine crawling nearer to her side of the street. She thought nothing of it until she heard a very distinctive voice talking to another.

"Something is wrong, John. Something is very wrong and the best place to start looking is at home." Sherlock's voice carried over the engine of the taxi.

Rage began to build up within Molly's chest. Jesus fucking Christ, I miss a few calls and texts and he decides to stalk me?! What an unbelievable prick! At the same time, panic began to creep into her chest. If they really weren't going to go away then that meant she was stuck in the house unless she could sneak out of the back to avoid them.

Idiot, that nasty voice spoke again, you really think he won't hear that. You'll just have to wait it out. You should have left ages ago, moron. Molly forced herself to become very still as she listened to the voices.

"Sherlock, this has gone way beyond harassment now," John Watson's reasonable voice could be heard, getting closer now. They were by the door. "When Molly is free or wants to talk to us, she can call us back."

"What if she can't?" Sherlock answered. "This is very un-Molly behaviour, you know that as well as I do. What if Euros has done something again and that's what's happening?"

"That's a big leap, Sherlock," John reasoned. "Molly could be busy. She does have a life outside of helping you. Maybe she has a date."

"No, she'd have picked up the phone to tell me she's on a date. She likes to tell me about her romantic ventures," Sherlock answered shortly. Molly's eyes filled with tears. Why was she in love with this jerk again? She wiped at her face. "She's not at work and she's not on a date so that leaves us with her being home and not being able to take our calls."

"Or she could just be ignoring them," John said.

"She's reading the texts though," Sherlock said. "All these messages have been read but not replied to."

"That doesn't rule out her ignoring you," John said. "You know, after what happened with Euros— she could just not want to talk to you. Anyway you said your sister was doing better didn't you?"

"Yes but there's always potential for relapse," said Sherlock. "Molly doesn't normally go four weeks without talking to me. Therefore, something is obviously wrong."

"I think you're making too much out of it." John argued. "It's only been a few hours since you messaged her today. Give her some more time."

Yes, Molly thought as she sat on her bed, listening, please just go and bother someone else, Sherlock.

"It's not like we need her for that case anymore, anyway," John added and Molly's gut twisted. Was that really how they just saw her? Someone useful every now and again? She turned away from the window and put her phone down.

"Sherlock, will you just stop bothering the poor woman?" John exclaimed.

"Molly!" Sherlock called and knocked on the door. Molly moved into the doorway of her bedroom and listened, arms folded. "Molly, are you all right?" He knocked again a few times and Molly sighed, turning her face into the door frame. Just speak to him, another voice, a lighter one spoke up. He's not going to go away. He's a gigantic pain in the arse. He'll just keep it up until you prove him wrong. The logic of this was somewhat comforting. Just get it over with.

She took a step out onto the hallway, then another and then another. Slowly she walked down the stairs, her hand sliding down the wall as she went. Now she was in the hallway and she could see the familiar shadow of Sherlock with his long coat and upturned collar and his hair that always looked fluffy in silhouette form. He was still knocking and each knock sent more uncertainty drumming through Molly's stomach. He reached down and his shadow crouched with him. He pushed open the flat of her letter box. She could see a thick slice of his face through it. His eyes quickly found hers.

"Molly!" He said her name with relief in his eyes and her chest twisted. "Where have you been? Are you okay? Is someone else there with you?" He asked all of these questions fairly quickly. His eyes darted around her, as if expecting to see someone with a knife or gun pointed at her head.

Molly shook her head and rolled her eyes. Somehow hearing Sherlock's anger awakened Molly's own. She crossed to the door in several long strides and unlocked it, throwing it open. Sherlock stood up as suddenly as a jack in the box, looming over Molly with his lanky form. However Molly looked up at him defiantly.

"First of all, Sherlock," she began hotly, "will you stop bothering me with calls and messages? It's harassment and I'm doing my very best not to jam these keys," she said holding up the ones that had been dangling from the inside of her door, just a moment ago, "somewhere painful." Sherlock's face twisted in protest but Molly quickly continued. "Secondly, I'm fine. There's no one here. No trouble. I just wanted to be left alone."

John appeared somewhat sheepishly behind Sherlock. "I mean, to be fair, Molly, you could have answered his messages."

"Exactly!" Sherlock agreed sharply. "Anything could have happened. After what my sister did. After everything that has happened, I thought you were in danger. You allowed me to think the worst, Molly. I've used a lot of time worrying about something happening to you. One message, that is all it would have taken."

"I'm sorry about that, really I am," Molly said with a flicker of a blush on her cheeks. "But I knew if I answered your messages, you'd just keep bothering me until I gave in. So don't tell me it would have taken just one message for you to leave me alone."

Sherlock frowned, ready to argue again. But this time, to Molly's relief, it was John who spoke, shrugging his shoulders and frowning in agreement. "Have to say, Sherlock. You are a pain in the arse when you don't get your own way."

Sherlock frowned down at his friend. "You make it sound like I'm entirely unreasonable," he challenged, his tone of great offence. "I think you'll find that-"

"You are." Both Molly and John interrupted at once and Molly smiled a little before returning her attention fully to Sherlock. "You're relentless when you want something or someone and then as soon as you don't need them you just ditch them at your convenience. Some of us have better things to do than wait around to be needed by you, Sherlock!" she snapped and then silence fell. Molly found that she had to catch her breath. So much of her anger at Sherlock had burst forth in those words that she felt like she had just done a short distance sprint. But it doesn't even touch the sides of everything he's done. If he knew… if he was capable of understanding, Molly thought to herself, then maybe things would be better but he's not. So there's no point.

He looked quietly astonished. His expression slackened with disbelief. It was rare to see Sherlock look so astonished but Molly couldn't take any humour out of it. The fact that he looked so clueless just made the hurt intensify in her chest. He really thinks we can go back to the way we were? He just doesn't get it.

She stepped back inside. "I'm sorry you came all this way. But I don't really want to see you right now, Sherlock." She told him. "I'll see you around," she finished quietly. She hesitated as she began closing her door. "It was good to see you John."

"Yeah, you too," John answered equally quietly before Molly shut the door.

As soon as she had, the tears trickled down her cheek.


End file.
